


Starstruck

by SinnamonSpider



Series: Otherwheres: Supernatural AU Bingo Challenge [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU wincest, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Brady's not a demon, Celebrity Crush, Dean Plays Guitar, First Kiss, M/M, Rock Star Dean, Sam is at Stanford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Sam Wesson's favourite band is Mark of Cain - especially guitarist Dean Smith. When Sam gets a chance to meet his idol, he's expecting a handshake and a selfie - and nothing more. What he gets is beyond anything he's allowed himself to dream about.





	Starstruck

**Author's Note:**

> For the SPN AU Bingo Challenge. Square filled is "rockstar!Dean".
> 
> For the purpose of this challenge, in this fic and all others, Dean's last name is Smith and Sam's is Wesson, but they are not necessarily the Smith/Wesson from "It's a Terrible Life". I just want to keep their surnames simple and consistent.
> 
> ...yeah I got nothing witty to say here this time. Just read and enjoy. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is my drug of choice.

“Holy shit, guys!” Brady rushed up to the table, eyes wide and his phone clenched in his hand.

Sam and Jess looked up quickly, startled. The librarian pinned all three of them with an evil look, raising a shushing finger to her lips. Jess smiled back winningly, even as her hand clamped down hard on Brady’s wrist. “Brady, shut up.”

“I can’t,” Brady insisted, still at full volume. “I can’t shut up. I’m literally incapable right now.”

“You’ll shut up real quick when I put you in a sleeper hold,” Jess threatened, green eyes serious. Sam snickered. Brady slid into an empty chair and gave Sam a wounded look. “Jeez, Wesson, can’t you keep your girlfriend from causing me bodily harm?”

“Not his girlfriend,” Jess said, at the same time Sam spoke. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Brady waved his hands impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, heard it before. Anyways. Shut up and listen.”

“You’re one to talk about shutting up,” Jess hissed, but Brady raised a finger to his lips, assuming the same frosty expression as the librarian, who was still glaring across the library at them.

“Guess what my mom has?” Brady said, lowering his finger, expression exultant.

“An idiot for a son?” Jess suggested brightly. Brady smiled widely back at her. “Just for that, Moore, you are so not invited.”

“Invited to what?” Sam demanded, overriding the constant bickering between his two friends. “Spit it out already, jeez.”

Brady held up his phone. “My mom just called. She has three backstage passes to Mark of Cain.” He grinned triumphantly as Sam and Jess’ jaws dropped simultaneously.

“Shut _up_!” Jess screeched, and the librarian got up from her desk, bustling over to them like an angry hen. “Out, all of you. Get out.”

They gathered their things quickly under the furious eye of the librarian, packing up and hurrying out of the library. Out in the bright sunshine, Jess rounded on Brady. “Say that again.”

“Backstage passes to Mark of Cain. Three. Tomorrow night.” Brady was so puffed up it was a wonder his head didn’t explode.

“How?” Sam exclaimed. “You can’t even get tickets anymore!”

“I know; we tried, remember?” Brady said, the chagrin of that failed endeavour passing over his face like a shadow. “Well, who cares about that now? We are going, babes, and we are gonna meet them!”

Jess sat down suddenly, dropping like a cut flower into the grass. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “I am going to get to meet Chuck fuckin’ Shurley.”

“Forget pretty boy Shurley,” Brady waved away the lead singer. “It’s all about Rowena, man.”

“I’m gonna touch him,” Jess went on, as though Brady wasn’t even talking. “I’m gonna fucking touch Chuck fuckin’ Shurley.” Her face was alight, eyes focused on nothing.

“Rowena MacLeod,” Brady insisted. “One of the only female bassists ever, redheaded goddess, and queen of my heart.” He shot a look at Sam, who hadn’t said anything. “Hey, man, say something. Or has all the blood in your head gone south at the idea of seeing your lover in the flesh?”

Sam flushed. “He’s not my lover.”

“You wish he was,” Brady argued. “You have one single decoration on your side of the room, one single thing that says ‘Yes, a person who enjoys things _does_ live here’, and it’s that poster. How are you not losing your freakin’ mind right now?”

“I’m excited, I am,” Sam assured him. “But you guys are crazy. Mark of Cain has millions of fans. They probably get backstage visits all the time. What makes you think we’re gonna stand out? They’ll smile and shake our hands and pose for a selfie or two, but that’s it, dude. That’s the extent of the interaction.” He adjusted his backpack on his shoulder. “I’ll see you guys in Chem.”

“Wow, so glad I’m wasting a backstage pass on you, Mr. Ray of Sunshine!” Brady shouted across the grass as Sam headed for the dorm.

* * *

As he entered the room he shared with Brady, Sam’s eyes were drawn instantly to the poster on his wall, above his bed.

A guy with a guitar was the the focus of the image. He had dark blonde hair and, although the picture didn’t show it, with the guy’s lids lowered to the guitar in his hands, he had bright emerald green eyes. He was dressed all in black, torn jeans revealing slices of fair skin beneath, and a black and silver guitar was pressed intimately against his hips.

Dean Smith, guitarist for Mark of Cain, and Sam’s longest-standing celebrity crush.

Sam wasn’t obsessed, he had argued on many occasions. He just really loved Mark of Cain; had for years, since their first album. He knew just as much about the other members: curly-headed lead singer Chuck Shurley, bassist Rowena MacLeod and her brother, drummer Fergus MacLeod. He’d been following the band for years. He’d seen them four times in concert. Being able to reel off facts about Dean Smith (height: 6’1”; favourite guitar: the one in the picture, a black and silver Fender Stratocaster he called Baby; favourite song to play: “Kick It In The Ass”, off their third album, _Angels and Demons_ ; favourite food: cheeseburgers) was just a sign of a lifelong fan. Nothing more. And there was nothing wrong with finding a plainly attractive guy to be attractive.

He glanced over at Brady’s side of the room: covered in posters, the distinctive red hair of Rowena MacLeod standing out in at least six of the images. Now, _that_ was obsessed.

Sam shrugged to himself. Despite his earlier comments to Brady - comments he truly meant - he was still excited at the prospect of at least getting to meet Dean Smith. A handshake and a cool selfie to post on Instagram: what more could you ask for? He’d leave the dreaming to the dreamers, and be happy with what he got.    

* * *

“Holy shit,” Jess said once more as the house lights came up and the crowd started moving for the exits. She released Sam’s arm, leaving white marks where her fingers had been pressing in hard. “That was incredible.” Her voice was wrecked from screaming and singing.

Sam cleared his throat before speaking, his own voice hoarse and ears ringing. “Yeah, it was.”

“Still wish we’d been on the other side of the stage,” Brady complained for the twentieth time.

Their VIP passes had gotten them prime spots at the very front of the venue on the right-hand side of the stage, where Dean Smith had been grinning and grinding on Baby, barely twenty feet away. Brady had pouted the whole time about being so far from Rowena, who was on the other side of the stage.

“These were the best spots we’ve ever gotten,” Sam reminded him. “We couldn’t afford tickets like this if we saved all year. Be grateful.”

“Easy for you to say,” Brady groused. “You got to get sweated on by _Dean Smith_. Surprised you didn’t pass out.”

“He’s saving that for backstage,” Jess cackled. She pulled her messy bun free, letting her long blonde hair spill down over her shoulders. “What do we do now?”

“Wait for the crowd to thin a bit, then there’s an area we’re supposed to wait in,” Brady said, peering around. He nudged Sam. “You’re twelve feet tall. See if you can see it. It says Limited Access Passholders.”

Sam scanned the arena, a head taller than most of the crowd. “Yeah, over there,” he said, pointing to a banner on the wall.

They fought their way through the crush of sweaty bodies, moving sideways against the stream of people heading for the exits. Pushing through the last stragglers, Sam sighed in relief as the air grew much cooler. He tugged at the soaked collar of his shirt, pulling the sticky fabric away from his body.

“God, I’m gonna hafta hug Chuck while I’m a sweaty disaster,” Jess moaned. She dug in her tiny bag and pulled out a bottle of perfume, spritzing herself liberally.

“Jeez, anyone tell you less is more?” Brady said, waving away the scent. Jess rolled her eyes. “Least I don’t have to meet Rowena looking like you do,” she said sourly.

“Joke’s on you,” Brady said, stripping off his sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulling the one he’d bought before the show on over his head. Rowena’s face, catlike and gorgeous, looked out from his chest. “Now she’ll know how much I love her.”

“Like you won’t be telling her anyways. Weren’t you planning on proposing?” Jess jeered back.

“Sam, I’ll give you fifty bucks if you kiss Dean Smith,” Brady said, deflecting the teasing onto someone else. Sam glared at him. “Are you crazy?”

“What?” Brady said, palms up. “Like you wouldn’t want to!”

“And get kicked out, and possibly arrested for harassment? No thanks,” Sam replied.

“What if he kissed you?” Brady asked.

Sam frowned. “That’s not gonna happen. Jeez.”

Jess cocked her head. “What if it did though?”

Sam groaned. “Not you too. I thought you were level-headed, Jess. Don’t tell me you’re just as delusional as he is.”

Shrugging, Jess went on. “Nothing is impossible, Sam. What if he’s just so taken with you, all tall dark and handsome, and he just can’t resist?”

“You’re both loons,” Sam said, throwing his hands in the air helplessly. “Absolute loons. He’s a fucking rock star. He’s also ten years older than us. And how the hell can you assume he’d want to kiss another guy?”

“He’s never come forward about any kind of relationship, with any gender,” Brady said reasonably. “Which is kinda weird. Shouldn’t he be swimming in pussy? Or dicks, if that’s what he wants. He could get anyone he wanted.”

“I am not having this conversation,” Sam said darkly. “Stop trying to set me up with Dean Smith.”

He was saved from any further insanity by a dark-haired woman wearing an access pass like theirs and carrying a clipboard. Sam realized that a few other lucky fans were also milling around the space. “Okay guys,” the woman said. “Time to meet the band.”

The group cheered and Sam couldn’t help cheering along with them. Despite the idiocy of his friends, he was about to meet Dean Smith, live and in person.

* * *

Clipboard Woman led them through the maze of hallways and corridors backstage, into a greenroom full of chairs and sofas. Security personnel stood solidly at the front and back doors.

“You’ve got thirty minutes,” Clipboard Woman told the group. “No video - pictures are fine. Hugs are okay, but don’t grab the band or make any inappropriate moves. You _will_ be removed. Have fun.” She smiled and extended a hand, sweeping it through the air to where Mark of Cain were rising to their feet, smiling at the little group of fans.

“Hey guys,” Chuck Shurley said, walking toward them. Sam felt Jess’ fingers digging into his arm again. Nobody from their little knot made any moves. “I don’t bite, promise,” Chuck joked. Sam jostled Jess. “Go,” he hissed in her ear, and she squeaked in reply before letting go of his arm and stepping forward bravely. “Oh my god,” she said as Chuck grinned at her, holding out his hand. “Hey, I’m Chuck.”

“I know you are!” Jess burst out, taking his hand.

Like ice breaking up, the rest of the fans started to move, spreading out over the room and approaching the band members. Little lines started forming as people waited to talk to their favourites first. Sam scanned the room, but Dean Smith was nowhere to be seen.

He went back to the door where Clipboard Woman - Ruby, he could see on her access pass - stood next to the burly security guard. “Uh, is there a washroom I could use?”

“Sure thing, hon,” Ruby said, stepping through the doorway and pointing down the hall. “Third door on the left.”

“Thanks.” Sam ducked out of the room and headed for the door she had indicated.

There was one other person in the washroom as he pushed open the door - a guy in all black, back to him at the row of urinals. Sam glanced over briefly - and then did a double take.

It was Dean Smith. He knew without seeing the guy’s face. Heart pounding double-time in his chest, Sam made his way over to the sinks, watching the guitarist in the mirror’s reflection.

The urinal flushed and Dean Smith turned around, heading over to join Sam, just a sink away. Feeling the flush on his face, Sam leaned over the sink to splash cold water on his heated skin.

As he emerged from his wet hands, Sam looked up to meet Smith’s eyes in the mirror. They were intensely green, and crinkled at the corners as Smith gave him a small smile. “Hey,” he said easily, shaking water off his hands.

“Hi - hey,” Sam stammered, hearing his voice crack embarrassingly. He swallowed hard. Smith took no notice, snagging a sheet of paper towel and drying his hands off. “You with the backstage group?”

His voice was low, smoky and deep, a little hoarse from over an hour of singing harmonies to Chuck’s lead. Sweat glittered at his hairline. The green eyes that Sam was drowning in were smudged with black makeup, making them huge and bottomless. Breaking his gaze away, Sam could see that Smith’s black t-shirt clung to the contours of his body, also damp with sweat. He blinked, realizing that Smith had asked him a question.

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Sam confirmed, cursing himself internally. He sounded like exactly what he felt like - a star-struck idiot. Smith just grinned, tilting his head. “What’s your name?”

Sam choked, his name caught in his throat. “Sam - I’m Sam,” he forced out.  

Smith chucked his paper towel in the trashcan across the room, netting a perfect shot. He raised a fist in self-congratulations, before extending the same hand to Sam. “I’m Dean Smith.”

“I - ” Sam cut himself off, refusing to sound like a moron any longer. He took the offered hand, feeling the warm heat of it, rough calluses from years of guitar playing rubbing against his skin.

Smith let go and turned, heading for the exit. He tossed Sam a look over his broad shoulder. “See you in there?”

He paused as Sam gaped, like he was genuinely waiting for an answer. “Uh, yeah, definitely!” Sam managed, sounding over eager to his own ears. He saw the corner of Smith’s full lips pull up in a lopsided grin, before he headed out the door.

Sam gripped the sink hard, his knees like jelly.

* * *

Recovered from his brush with Dean Smith, Sam headed back into the greenroom. He saw Smith at the back of the room, talking to Jess - who, for all her love for Chuck Shurley, was blushing so hard it looked like her face was on fire.

Sam left her to it and crossed the room to join Brady, who was deep in conversation with Rowena and Fergus. He introduced Sam and the MacLeods posed for pictures with Sam and Brady before Sam slipped away.

A touch at his elbow turned out to be Jess, still flushed red from her conversation with Smith. “God, he makes you feel like you’re the only person on the planet,” she said breathlessly, and Sam nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.

“You didn’t even talk to him yet!” Jess exclaimed. “Stop being shy and get over there.”

“I did talk to him,” Sam argued. “I, uh, kinda met him in the bathroom.”

“What the fuck?” Jess hissed. “What did he say? What happened? Oh my god!”

Sam grabbed her arm. “Jeez, keep it down,” he pleaded. “Nothing happened. He just introduced himself while I stood there stammering like an idiot.”

“Yeah, he has that affect,” Jess agreed, shaking herself slightly. “Still, you should go talk to him again. Get your picture, all that.”

“I will,” Sam said placatingly. “But not just now, Jess, please?”

Taking pity on him, Jess nudged his shoulder. “Okay, okay. Did you meet Chuck yet? Let me introduce you.” She winked. “He told me to come back and talk to him later, I couldn’t believe it!”

The dragged Sam across the room to introduce him to the lead singer. As they headed over, Sam craned his neck to see Dean Smith, holding court at the back of the room with a gaggle of pink-cheeked girls. Smith’s eyes flicked up and met Sam’s, holding steady, and Sam felt a shiver race down his spine.

* * *

The meet and greet was almost done; Ruby has announced a five minute warning. Sam hovered on the outskirts of the room. He’d been trying to work up the courage to go over and talk to Dean Smith once more, but his nerves had failed him, and Smith had disappeared from his spot at the back of the room.

There was a touch on his arm, like before, but it wasn’t Jess; Sam could see her, still at Chuck’s side, listening to him talk with a rapt expression on her face. Expecting Brady, Sam turned to find green eyes on him.

“Hey,” Smith said, just like he had in the bathroom earlier, all easy grace. His head was tipped to the side, watching as Sam nearly swallowed his tongue. “You didn’t come see me.”

His tone was almost pouty; paired with a slight purse of his already full lips, the effect was heartstopping. Sam struggled to speak. “Uh, you looked busy.”

“Never too busy for a fan,” Smith said. “Did you want a pic?”

Sam fumbled for his phone. “Uh, yeah! If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Smith slid in next to him, arm curling warm and almost possessive around Sam’s waist. Sam wondered if Smith could feel him shaking. Pushing the thought aside, Sam lifted his phone, watching in disbelief as his face, with Smith’s pressed right against it, filled the screen. He took a picture, but his hand was trembling and it came out blurry.

“Here.” Smith reached out with the hand not currently resting on Sam’s hip, fingers curled against bone, and wrapped it around Sam’s hand, steadying him. He leaned in again, and Sam could smell him: citrusy cologne, rich leather, the sharp tang of clean sweat. Somehow, he managed to snap the picture again, clear this time. “Thank you,” he said.

Smith’s arm dropped from around him and Sam felt bereft without the touch. “No problem,” the other man said. He stayed close, voice low and intimate. “You like the show?”

Safe ground, Sam thanked the gods. “Yeah, definitely! It was my fifth time seeing you guys. You always put on a great show.”

“You never took your eyes off me.”

Sam blinked. The statement had been so matter-of-fact, he’d nearly missed the actual words. “I, uh - ”

Smith’s eyes were intoxicating. Sam felt drunk. “I’ve been watched with adoration before, Sam,” Smith said softly, “but never like that.”

Sam didn’t know what to say, how to reply. His breathing was harsh and he could feel his cheeks aflame. Jess was right, one hundred percent - he felt like the only person on Earth, with Smith’s eyes intent on him.

A thick, calloused finger traced the curve of his elbow. “Hopin’ you’re not about to break my heart here, Sam, but how old are you?”

“Ni-nineteen,” Sam stammered. He knew Dean Smith’s age as well as his own (January 24th, Aquarius), knew there was a full ten years between them.

“Thank God,” Smith said, voice full of promise. Sam shuddered at the sound, as well as the finger still trailing over his bare arm. Smith leaned in - leaned up, Sam realized with a jolt, because he had a good three inches on the other man - and spoke directly into Sam’s ear. “Can I kiss you, Sam?”

Sam felt his knees buckle, reached back to hold onto the wall. “God, yes,” he whispered helplessly.

The fingers tickling gently over his arm took firm hold on his elbow. “Not here,” Smith said huskily. “Outside.” He guided Sam around the room, skirting the edges until they reached the back door where the huge security guard stood. Smith grinned at the enormous guy, who was even taller than Sam. “Rick, give us a minute?”

The guy stepped aside, opening the door, and Smith escorted Sam out into the cool summer night. The door banged shut behind them.

Smith backed Sam up until he was pressed against the bricks, still warm from the day’s sun. Sam felt his shirt catching on the rough surface. He gasped for air as Smith’s hands, which hadn’t left his body since those first teasing strokes on his elbow, skimmed up his arms to cradle his face. “You okay?” Smith asked seriously, pulling back slightly, concern overwriting desire in his huge green eyes. “Don’t let me pressure you, Sam. That’s not what this is about. If you don’t want this, just tell me.”

Sam reached out, tangling his hands in Smith’s black shirt. “De - Mr. Smith, I - ”

“Dean,” Smith insisted. “I’m about to kiss you, if you’ll let me. Don’t call me Mr. Smith.” His smile, warm and wide, undercut the command in his words.

“De-Dean,” Sam gasped. His head was spinning. All he could think was that Jess and Brady had been right, somehow. “I do want this - God, do I want this.”

Those green eyes crinkled at the corners as Dean’s smile widened, before he pressed closer to Sam. “Good,” he whispered, breath warm on Sam’s skin, and then those plush lips, the ones that Sam had been dreaming about since he was barely thirteen, were on his.

He whimpered helplessly under the touch, as Dean stroked his thumbs along Sam’s jaw, angling his head just the way he wanted. His tongue brushed against Sam’s lips, seeking permission and Sam opened up under his mouth, knees threatening to give way again.

Dean’s hands slipped from his face; one slid upwards to bury in Sam’s long hair, the other skating downwards to trail over his chest and stomach, down to his hip where it held on, fingers digging in. The kiss went on uninterrupted, Dean’s tongue wet and slick against his own. Sam felt like he was dying.

Over the blood rushing thunderously through his ears, Sam heard knocking on the door next to them. “Mr. Smith?”

Dean broke the kiss, mouth tearing away from Sam’s. He let his head fall forward into Sam’s neck, and Sam felt as well as heard his whispered “Damn it.” Sam shivered.

Dean’s head came up, eyes flicking back and forth rapidly over Sam’s face. “Sorry to kiss and run,” he said, and Sam’s eyes caught on his full lips, fuller now from the kiss. He had done that, he marvelled in his head - he was the cause of Dean Smith’s kiss-swollen lips.

As Dean stepped back, letting the cool air rush in between them, he reached for his back pocket, pulling out a marker. “Want my autograph?” he said cheekily, grabbing Sam’s pass where it hung from the lanyard around his neck. Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dean’s flushed face and swollen mouth. He knew that Dean was scrawling something on his pass. Finished, the guitarist tucked the marker back into his pocket and snagged the lanyard once more, tugging it gently so Sam came forward and brushing a kiss over Sam’s lips. “Bye, Sam.”

Then he was gone, banging twice on the door to the room which opened instantly, the mountainous Rick stepping back to allow Dean into the room. He waited until Sam had also stumbled through into the nearly empty room.

The fans had all gone - Jess and Brady were nowhere to be seen. The other band members stood near the centre of the room, eyeing Sam with surprised expressions. Ruby hovered nervously at the front door, stepping forward quickly to Sam’s side. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Even as Ruby escorted him across the room, Sam couldn’t help it - he looked back once, to where Dean Smith was being accosted by his fellow bandmates, all clamouring to know what had happened. Dean looked up and met Sam’s eyes once more - and winked once. Then Sam was out the door, in the maze-like corridors of the arena’s backstage area.

“Are you okay?” Ruby said, staring up at Sam with concern. “What - he’s _never_ \- God, this is a lawsuit, isn’t it?” She bit her lip nervously. “Dean’s never - I mean Mr. Smith has - ”

“It’s fine,” Sam croaked, finding something resembling his voice. “I won’t - it’s fine. I swear.”

Ruby didn’t believe him, Sam knew; she kept darting scared looks up at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna go running to the press or anything,” Sam assured her, but his words did nothing to take the petrified look off her face.

As they reached the door leading back into the arena proper, Ruby flipped the paper on her clipboard up, retrieving something from underneath. She handed it to Sam: a business card. “Please, if you’re thinking of doing anything at all, please, _please_ \- call me first. I’m the band’s press manager. Please, I’m begging you.” She swallowed hard. “I swear, nothing like this has ever happened before.”

Sam felt a small thrill roll through him at her words. He’d been dreading finding out that Dean Smith was like any other rockstar, bedding his groupies at every show. The apparent shock of the rest of the band and Ruby was reassuring, somehow, even though it didn’t matter; he would never see Dean Smith again. “I won’t, but thank you.” He pocketed the card and headed for the door.

Pushing through, he heard Jess’ voice. “Thank God! Where the hell were you?” She was pale, eyes wide. Next to her, Brady also looked nervous. “You just disappeared, man, what happened?”

“And why do you look like you got punched in the mouth?” Jess demanded. “Or like you’ve been making out with someone?”

Sam shook his head, looking at Brady. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

The words took a while to sink into his friends’ ears. Then Brady’s eyes widened comically. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Swear to God,” Sam said, holding up his hands.

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” Brady shouted, as Jess just stared. “You’ve got to be - are you fucking serious?!”

“Did you kiss Dean Smith?!” Jess shrieked, finding her voice. Sam winced. “Jeez, keep it down.”

“How - where - what the fuck _happened_?” Brady sputtered. Sam shook his head again. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he said, heading toward the exit, Brady and Jess scrambling after him.

As they demanded answers, shouting in his ears, Sam picked up his access pass, fingers tracing over the familiar scrawl of Dean’s name in thick black ink. Idly, he turned it over - and froze.

On the back of the pass was a phone number, and a few scribbled words.

_Nice to meet you, Sam. Call me sometime, if you want._

Sam let the pass fall back against his heart.


End file.
